


Silent Night

by lowlifetheory



Series: Christmas Collection [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abandonment, Angst, Confusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:24:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowlifetheory/pseuds/lowlifetheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anon request for DerekxStiles Silent Night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Night

It was quiet, and still, tiny flakes of snow floating from above to land on the ground around him. No one was around, it was just Stiles and his mind, his thoughts, his memories. His boots crunched in the snow below his feet as he started his walk, and he bundled his hands into the pockets of his thick coat. 

A car passed, a tiny face looking out the back window, waving at him. Stiles waved back, his black gloves covering easily with snow. He shook it free and kept going, watching the patterns his breath made, the almost black flakes falling past the street lights as he made his way. He fancied he could hear it falling, he wondered if werewolves could hear it, could feel it with their sensitive bodies. He would ask one, if one were around, if he knew where to find one. 

Eventually his journey led away from the street and into the park. He passed the school that held so many memories, so much fun and horror, pain and happiness. He passed the police station, although he was a bit aways from it. He could see the tiny tree in what used to be his fathers office. It looked warm and welcoming. Stiles shook his head and kept going, until he was on the forest path. 

There was less snow here beneath the canopy of trees, the earth saved from the snow only to be covered in frost. It was slick, the path, with dead leaves and sharp twigs. Stones sat at odd angles with no boots or travellers recently to ware them down. 

Stiles carried on until he was there, at that old house, a burned out husk still. It looked deceptive, the snow resting on parts of the uncovered roof and beams, lying around it. Stiles closed his eyes, remembered loud laughter, squealing and playing, fighting and roaring, gunshots and screams. Flames that had once licked the wood.

He walked around it slowly, listening for something that wasn't there, for someone who didn't exist any longer in his world. 

The pack had just dissappeared, they had left a week before Stiles was due to graduate college. No call, no note, no letter, just, nothing. 

He had looked at first, hunted for them, with Allison's help, because that was all who was left, himself and Allison, but eventually even she had moved on, moved away. She was married now, they had a son. Stiles had received the Christmas card with a picture of the baby dressed as a little Christmas pudding. Nathan was adorable, and cute, and Allison looked truely happy as she held him close, Daniel's arms wrapped around her from behind. 

This was going to be worse, because his dad's death had left him truely alone. Not content to rest Stiles had put all his efforts into finding his old friends, and he'd forgotten to make new friends, to build relationships. He only had his dad, and now, he was alone. 

He closed his eyes and remembered other noises, breathy moans, whines, the creaking of a bed frame, the rustling of sheets, the sound of skin on skin. Stubble rasping across his cheek. He knew, Stiles knew that Derek wouldn't have left like that, not without good reason, he just knew. Derek loved him, Derek had said the words, aloud, regularly. Derek loved Stiles and Derek was alive, he had to be, alive, well, somewhere. 

'I love you too.' Stiles told the night, the house, the forest. 'I love you, I'll love you until I end.' 

He stayed there, longer than he cared to admit to, circling the old building, waiting for something, some miracle. Stiles didn't believe in miracles, they were for idiots, and he was an idiot, but not that kind. He was the kind who hung on, who believed when everyone else moved on, who scrambled to hold onto what he'd lost. The pack had moved on, they no longer needed him, he was just that guy, comic relief, they were over him, had forgotten him. 

When he could barely feel his toes he started back, taking the path he had come. It was well past midnight now, Christmas Day, he realised. As he walked he started to hum Silent Night, then glance over the words, singing half remembered lyrics. 

Stiles walked to his front door, and his hands shook as he pulled the key from his jacket pocket. 

'Stiles.' A voice said.

Stiles shuddered, he should have left earlier, he should have headed home, because he must be dead, he must be lying somewhere dying, hallucinating, staring at the night sky and hearing voices in his head. 

'Stiles.' He said again and Stiles shuddered, his body wracked with cold. 'Can I come home?'

You never left, Stiles tried to say as everything faded to darkness.


End file.
